


Dirty Laundry

by noodleinabarrel



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Cleaning, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Old Married Couple, Old Married Spirk Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodleinabarrel/pseuds/noodleinabarrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim keeps leaving dirty dishes in the sink and toast crumbs in the bed. Spock deals with the mess silently until an unfortunate ironing incident puts it all in perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [OMS Challenge](http://oldmarriedspirk.tumblr.com/) 2015!

Spock glanced away from the news feed on his PADD to watch Jim, lounging on his side, stuff a piece of toast into his mouth. The hand not preoccupied with breakfast curled lazily around Spock's knee. "You are dropping crumbs in our bed linens," Spock stated, eyebrow raised.    
  
Grinning, Jim leaned in, the smell of butter and charred wheat tickling Spock's olfactory nerves. He pressed his lips to the corner of Spock's, morning stubble and bread crumbs scratching the delicate skin. "Now I'm dropping my crumbs all over you."  
  
"Jim." Spock closed his eyes, the sensation of his bondmate's attentions spreading through his veins and along his neural pathways as Jim's buttery fingers brushed against Spock's cheek. Answering tendrils of affection heating to lust unfurled down his body. "It is unhygienic to allow food particles to enter our sleeping area."  
  
"I'll change the sheets." Jim tossed a leg over Spock's lap. "Later." He pulled the PADD from Spock's loosened fingers, tossing it onto the bedside table.  
  
*  
  
Spock deepened his inhale of breath, blinking slowly to clear the haze of physical stimuli from his senses. The thrum of shower jets echoed in his ears and Spock considered the possibility of joining Jim in his ablutions, with the hopes of multitasking his morning cleansing with another bout of sexual relief. Stepping out of bed, Spock's thigh brushed against several coarse particles. With forefinger and thumb, Spock removed a crumb of toast from the sheet. In the interest of expediency, he pulled the sheets from the mattress, retrieving a fresh set from the linen closet.    
  
Spock tightened the sheet's corners, tucking them below the mattress, until he had pulled the cloth tense enough to provide an adequate amount of comfort for undisturbed sleep. The sound of water hitting their porcelain tub quieted, replaced by the wet metallic squeak of their old faucet handle. Spock lamented missing the opportunity to observe Jim's body highlighted against the stream of water. There was a district appeal to his body when soaked, hair slicked back against his head, droplets of water hanging tentatively from his eyelashes. So much so, that Spock often found himself aroused during their shared bathing. Smoothing a palm over the quilt to straighten any creases, Spock's eye caught the crumple of bedclothes outside the bathroom door. An extended breath of air left his lips as he bent to retrieve them.  
  
"I'll have to leave my clothes lying around more often." A hand rested on Spock's right hip, warm and softened from the shower. It drifted lower to cup the curve of Spock's buttocks.  
  
Spock stood, leaning into the pressure of Jim's hand. "Your attire will become unnecessarily creased if you persist in doing so." He shook out the loose pajamas, folding them neatly sideways then lengthways. "And, as has frequently become the case, you will be unable to find the specific article when it is needed since it will not be in the drawer where clothing is meant to be kept and several minutes of our time will be spent searching for said item, which at some point during its residence on the floor will likely be pushed under our bed, the cupboard, or become hidden under another strewn piece of clothing."  
  
Jim wrapped his arms around Spock's waist, pressing warm human skin to his chilled back, the change in temperature and proximity sending a shiver down Spock's spine. "Are you saying I'm getting forgetful?" Jim hummed into Spock's ear, all hot breath and laughter.  
  
"Negative. Only that human memory in relation to neglected pieces of clothing on the floor is left wanting."  
  
"Good thing I have a Vulcan to keep my wits about me, then," Jim spoke into Spock's neck where he was currently nipping a trail from cheek to shoulder.  
  
"Indeed," Spock replied, tilting his neck twenty degrees to the right to provide additional coverage for Jim’s mouth. He closed his eyes, savoring the moist press of Jim's tongue, soft lips contrasted with the bite of teeth. A wisp of lust, amusement, and affection tickled through the touch of fingers on his waist. The hint of irritation about crumbs in the bed and clothes on the floor was forgotten, shoved to the back of his mind like Jim's dirty clothes that would make their inevitable way under the bed.  
  
*  
  
"I can't eat another bite." Jim groaned, leaning back in his chair, a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. He patted his stomach twice, and stretched his legs out under the table. His left foot grazed against Spock's ankle, wool socks and curled toes caressing the rounded joint.    
  
Spock placed his fork and knife parallel on top of his plate. The vegetable stir fry he had prepared for their evening meal possessed a pleasing flavour agreeable to both their taste buds, as evidenced by their cleared plates. He relished the emptiness of Jim's dish, his projections of contentment, and the rush of warmth caused by the upward line of Jim's toes along the seam of his trousers. Spock reached to take Jim's plate and cutlery, grazing index and middle fingers along Jim's knuckles before gathering the soiled dishes and stacking them on his own.  
  
"Leave it," Jim smiled, squeezing Spock's arm, calloused thumb brushing against his skin in a circle. "You cooked, I'll do the cleaning."  
  
"It was my intention to provide a relaxing evening for you after the day of toil you described experiencing at the academy today." Spock moved to stand. "As I suffered no particular mental stresses this afternoon, it is logical that I should take upon the effort of cleansing our dishes. It is no trouble."  
  
Jim's secure grip pressed down on Spock's shoulders, easing him back into his seat. "Leave it, Spock." Unwrapping Spock's hold on the plates, finger by finger, Jim slipped the ceramics from his grasp, and, with another designed shoving pat on Spock's shoulder, carried them off into the kitchen. "Equal distribution of domestic duties, and all that," Jim's voice echoed around the clatter of forks and knives being deposited in the sink, running water filling the basin. A cupboard door squeaked open, the one Jim had assured Spock he would oil two weekends ago, insisting Spock take it easy after injuring his shoulder on an icy stairwell during their week away in Vermont. His jaw clenched at the sound. It was possible Jim had forgotten his promise or had been distracted by other duties or pastimes. The cupboard was inconsequential, the infinitesimal sound, while jarring to the detail oriented mind of a Vulcan, barely discernible to that of a human who was more likely concerned with the contents—their collection of liquor and spirits hailing from across Terran and containing choice bottles from various planets visited during their travels. The cupboard creaked closed and the pop of a cork being slipped from a bottle followed.  
  
Jim emerged from the kitchen moments later carrying two wine glasses filled with crimson liquid. "If you wanna help me relax, finish this bottle of Bordeaux with me. Remember, the one Bones gave us for our house warming." He handed Spock a glass before retiring to his favourite chair beside their imitation fireplace. The fabric around the armrests was worn and the cushion compressed by multiple seatings, particularly by Jim's posterior. Whenever Spock sat in it—rare, as he preferred the newer couch with its firmer stuffing and unblemished cover—his body sunk into the indentation, overly wide for his own backside, legs hunched too close to his chest. Spock had suggested replacing the chair with an updated model to match their recent refurbishment of the living room. In response, Jim had appeared scandalized, his mouth dropping. He over evaluated its comfort, insisting that the chair fit him just right, as if he were one of the bears in the children's story about the golden locked girl. Additionally, he argued the chair had sentimental value, citing the five times they had engaged in sexual activities on the chair after a good meal, a glass of wine, and Jim's warm inviting gaze leading Spock into his lap.    
  
"I still can't believe he took a trip all the way out to France—and transported there, out of all the options," Jim chuckled. "The wine must be that good."    
  
Spock stood, following Jim into their living room, sitting on the edge of the settee across from Jim. He lifted the glass to his nose, the sweet smell of fermentation filling his nostrils. Spock had a brief recollection of his younger self, before the Enterprise, before Jim, and imagined what he would have thought seeing himself in middling years taking pleasure from a beverage that provided neither essential nutrition nor hydration. Likely, his younger self would have been disbelieving, possibly offended, while pretending not to be, with a passive aggressiveness that had fueled his personality at the time. Smiling to himself, Spock took a generous sip of the wine and swallowed, the liquid heating his throat. Another pleasure Jim had willingly led Spock into.  
  
Several moments passed in silence as they both savored the taste of wine on their tongues, the soft comfort of pillows behind their backs, and the movement of flames within the simulated grate—the dancing fire a calming influence upon Spock’s senses. Spock found himself sinking further into the couch as Jim returned to their conversation. He gossiped about his students, bragging about two in particular, his eyes projecting excitement as he detailed their achievements on the latest round of command track simulations. Spock was comforted by Jim's enthusiasm. When Jim had taken the teaching position at Starfleet Academy, Spock worried that his bondmate, a man of action rather than theory, might find the new profession, after so many years spent among the stars, as stagnate as his brief time at the admiralty offices. Working with the cadets invigorated him, however, their youth and desire for knowledge feeding off of Jim's boundless enthusiasm for space exploration and starship command.  
  
Ending an anecdote with a wistful smile, Jim proceeded to ask Spock how his delegations with the Andorian ambassador on their proposed trade agreements were proceeding. Spock began to detail benign specifics at first, but the glass of wine, Jim's steady smile, and the intimacy of the room loosened Spock's inhibitions. He advanced to dry comments about the ambassador's comical vocabulary and sly remarks about Vulcan obstinacy until Jim was bent over his knees, hand clutching his stomach, begging Spock to stop before he burst his stomach from laughing. Spock pressed his lips together as Jim's laughter echoed through their bond.    
  
Jim's amusement often had this influence on Spock, as if it were overflowing from a cup, wine poured with a negligent hand, spilling over onto Spock along their connection and causing the muscles at the edge of Spock's lips to twitch, his cheek muscles to constrict, physical expressions of emotion escaping, despite the strict constraints of his mental shields. As they were alone in their own home, Spock allowed himself to reach out and take Jim's hand curled against the fraying fabric of the armchair, the skin at his wrist dusted with a mixture of gold and gray hairs, barely discernible under the fluorescent lights above them, but soft and teasing against the sensitive pads of Spock's fingers.  
  
"How about a game of chess?" Jim smiled, eyes heavy. Spock nodded, and Jim set up the board, re-filling their wine glasses in the process.    
  
They played two games, Jim winning both, and Spock blaming Jim's use of unethical methods to distract him. Namely, the repetitive stroking of Spock's thigh and the faint brushings of lust Jim sent across their bond, mental stimuli that Spock could have easily blocked if he possessed the desire to. Which, of course, he did not. Jim blamed the three glasses of wine Spock had drunk compared to the two he had consumed. Despite the fact that alcohol caused little effect on Spock’s Vulcan reasoning--unlike Jim's sexual prowess.    
  
A wide yawn pulled at Jim's lips mid faux argument, and he leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. He rubbed at his eyes, and grinned sleepily at Spock, eyes half lidded. "Time for bed, I think." He stood. "You coming?"  
  
"In a moment," Spock replied, replacing the chess pieces within their box. Although Jim often professed it was pointless to put the game away since the antique wooden board made an attractive decoration in their living quarters, and the two of them played most nights, the thought of dust marring the delicate pieces coated in valuable memories annoyed Spock. And so, he placed the pieces within their container after every game, as Jim shrugged the ritual off with a joke about Spock's mix of human sentimentality and Vulcan tidiness.  
  
*  
  
Jim was still asleep when Spock awoke the next morning, a consistent routine considering Vulcans required less repose than humans. After tucking the sheets Jim had tousled during the night more securely around his body to better contain warmth, Spock quietly dressed and cleansed himself before stepping into the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea and start the coffee timer for Jim's predicted wake time.  
  
Spock frowned at the sight awaiting him in the kitchen. The sink was full of soiled dishes remaining from their dinner last night. Gripping the edge of the counter briefly, Spock closed his eyes and breathed. With a small shake of his head, Spock twisted the tap, filling the sink with clean steaming water. He turned on both the kettle and the coffee machine, then pulled rubber gloves over his hands with a snap. As he waited for the water to boil, he scrubbed at the leftover rice and vegetables crusted on the pots, rinsed the red particles from wine glasses, and loaded plates and bowls into the fresher, as the coffee maker dripped in the background.    
  
"What are you doing?" Jim's morning rough voice called out from behind him as Spock was drying the last pot with a dishcloth.    
  
Spock removed the rubber gloves from his hands, folding then over the edge of the sink. "I was cleaning the dishes left from last night."  
  
Jim huffed, running a hand through his hair, causing the ends, already ruffled from being pressed against a pillow for eight hours, to stand dramatically upward. "I said I'd do it."  
  
"Yet, you did not." Spock took the wet cloth, running it over the counter top, sweeping up debris that was not there, as he had already scoured the surface before serving dinner last night. "As I was awake and had no urgent plans this morning, I rationally decided to clean them." He did not mention his desire to drink his morning tea while reading the latest research releases from Starfleet's science department. While distracted by a pot coated with hardened vegetables, the tea brewed twenty two minutes ago had gone cold.  
  
"You should've left it." Jim shrugged his shoulders, arms rising loosely before swinging back down against his hips. "I was going to do them this morning. I didn't want to interrupt our nice evening with washing up."  
  
Pulling a mug from the cupboard, Jim's favorite--chipped at one lip, the coloured emboss faded--filling it three centimeters from the rim with coffee. "No matter. The dishes are now clean and dried."  
  
Jim frowned, an echoing worry along their bond link. "I really wish you left them alone, Spock. I would've cleaned them."  
  
"I know, Jim." Spock handed him the mug and lifted his shields, cloaking his irritation with resonating affection as sunlight highlighted the graying mess on top of Jim's head. Sighing, brushing the edge of sleep from his eyes, Jim took a long gulp of coffee as Spock's fingers moved ritualistically through his bondmate's hair, easing out the tangles.  
  
   
  
Three days later, Jim left the dishes in the sink again after a late night marking student papers, promising to do them the next morning when he had more energy. As usual, Spock rose first in the early hours and saw no logic in leaving dirty dishes to be cleaned until Jim possessed free time, despite his fervent insistence that the cleaning was his duty. And again four nights after, when Jim spent most of the evening reading a novel, head in Spock's lap, fingers tangled together, as Spock flipped through the pages of a scientific journal on his PADD one handed, unwilling to disengage from the slow pressure of Jim's hand, every shift of digits, every scrape of fingernail against palm causing a wave of pleasure low in his stomach. As Spock pretended to read an article while processing each movement of Jim against thighs and fingers, the fraying antique book in Jim's grip eventually fell to his chest, his eyes fluttering closed. The evening ended with Spock removing the book delicately from Jim's hands, lifting the man into his arms, and depositing him on their bed. He carefully removed each article of clothing, fluffing the quilt over Jim’s body and easing the glasses from his nose to fold them on their bedside table. Although the idea of curling up next to Jim's sleeping form, pressing his stomach to Jim's back, hands lacing through the sparse hairs on his chest, Jim's buttocks pressed pleasingly against Spock's groin, Spock was not overly wearied. So, he returned to the kitchen to clean the dishes. The thought of unfinished duties requiring completion when he possessed enough energy to perform them satisfactorily, dissipated the temptation of leisure.    
  
Jim slept through his alarm. In his haste to arrive in time for his morning class, Jim abandoned a plate scattered in toast crumbs on the counter next to his coffee mug, a ring of brown drying on the bottom. Spock rinsed and deposited them into the fresher.  
  
*  
  
Jim had left the clothes sitting in the dryer from approximately 08:00 when Jim turned on the dryer on Monday, to the present hour three days later. The clothed Spock had recently removed from the washing machine would mold and acquire a distasteful odor if left sitting in the hamper until Jim arrived home at 18:00 when Spock could remind him of the forgotten items. So, Spock bent in front of the dryer, scooped out Jim's clean washing into a fresh hamper. After resetting the dryer for his wet items, Spock stared down at the basket full of clothes surely crumpling and creasing, including Jim's dress uniform--the one he had spilled ketchup on during a media event last week. Spock had scrubbed the stain out with baking soda.    
  
Carrying the basket into their bedroom, Spock began folding each item, storing them away in the closet. Unfortunately, the uniform had become quite creased during its long residence in the dryer. Jim never remembered that the delicate and temperamental fabric needed to air dry. This particular piece was the third uniform Jim had worn through in the past three months.    
  
Spock plugged in an iron to heat. Although the creases could wait, Spock, though he trusted Jim implicitly with his life, held no confidence in Jim's ironing abilities. It was highly likely Jim would burn a hole through the fabric by setting the temperature to high, or become distracted by a call or a book or a thought, and leave the iron to brand a rigid brown patch on the red cloth. Spock smoothed the iron over each crease, stiffening the collar and hems, then hung the uniform on its designated hanger within their closet. He stood back and admired his handiwork, how the uniform hung straight and smooth, imagining the unblemished fabric laying against Jim's skin, sharp along the lines of his shoulders, snug around the plumpness of his stomach, the bright red highlighting the light in his eyes. Spock allowed a wave of affection to rush over him as he brushed a hand down one sleeve, still warm from the iron's heat.  
  
Jim returned home three hours later, voice of welcome echoing through their rooms. Spock met him in the hall where he was toeing off his muddy boots, wet from the rain.    
  
"Sorry, I'm late," Jim smiled at him, meeting the stretch of Spock's fingers with his own. "Got caught up with office hours. One student can't get their head wrapped around this new ethics module. Not that I blame her--its bland stuff." He dropped his bag beside the boots and rolled his shoulders. "Don't suppose we can get out of this shindig tonight. It's just the fleet sucking up to the media, as usual. I'd rather get a head start on my course planning for next term."  
  
Spock eyed the muddy foot prints on the tiles, wondering at Jim's inability to keep his boots on the mat placed by the door for such purposes as inclement weather. "We could cancel," he replied, forcing his gaze away from the dirty floor to the much more pleasant sight of Jim's eyes. “However, as you convinced Doctor McCoy to attend in order to scare off the paper pushing hordes, as you quite eloquently stated, I would not advise abandoning the doctor, as you would likely incur his emotional wrath."  
  
Jim cringed, patting Spock's bicep. "You're right as always. What would I do without you?"    
  
"Likely be brought down by McCoy's ample cynicism."  
  
"A fate worse than death," Jim half laughed half snorted, pressing his shoulder against Spock's as he ambled past. "I'll go make myself presentable."  
  
*  
  
"So, how you two settling into domestic life?" McCoy asked, slowly easing into a chair with a muffled groan, one hand cradling a plate piled high with hors d'oeuvre. As the doctor persisted in complaining about back trouble, pains he confessed experiencing since before the end of their recent deep space mission, Spock gave up querying McCoy about the healing process and plying suggestions of rest. Such comments regularly caused the doctor to question Spock's qualifications, assuring him there was only one medical doctor in the room, never mind Spock's all-knowing Vulcan mumbo jumbo, it couldn't reverse old age--no cure for that.    
  
"Your phrasing is inaccurate, doctor. Since we have been bonded for fifteen years, Jim and I have already become accustomed to experiencing life while frequently in one another's presence."  
  
"Living on a starship together is one thing, creating your own nest in another." Bones nodded sagely, popping a miniature sausage into his ever moving mouth.    
  
"Neither Jim nor I contain avarain DNA," Spock parried. "We live in a condominium not a nest."  
  
"I'm being figurative, smart ass, and you know it," Bones quipped with a roll of his eyes. Spock was impressed the doctor had not injured his superior rectus with such excessive eye dramatics over the years.  
  
"At it again?" Jim approached them, finally escaping the clutches of a reporter from the San Francisco chronicle who had pulled Jim into conversation the instant his foot stepped across the perimeter of Starfleet's garishly decorated event hall. "You were supposed to be protecting me from hanger-ons, Bones, not hassling Spock."  
  
"He started it," McCoy mumbled around a slice of cheese, a pointed finger jabbed in Spock's direction.  
  
"Incorrect," Spock replied. "You are the one you initiated our conversation."  
  
"I don't know how you put up with this, Jim," McCoy shook his head, voice raised.  
  
"Quite easily, actually," Jim answered with a smile at Spock. "To be honest, I don't know how he puts up with me."  
  
"You two make me sick," McCoy made a gagging sound, likely for show considering the gusto with which he was devouring his plate of appetizers. "Lovey dovey, as usual."  
  
"So, what were you talking about?" Jim asked, grabbing two glasses of punch and handing one to Spock. When McCoy raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat loudly, complaining about the saltiness of the cheese and a lack of decorum among couples blind to the needs of everyone except their significant other, Jim stepped back to the table, retrieving another two glasses for McCoy with a fierce grin.  
  
"Domestic life," McCoy answered, sipping at his glasses of punch. "I was trying to get all your gossip, but Spock was having none of it."  
  
"I was not intentionally withholding information, Doctor, only correcting your patterns of speech."    
  
"It's great," Jim replied quickly, interrupting the progress of McCoy's open mouth and furrowed brow before it could emit more quibbling statements. "I'm in heaven." Jim nudged Spock. "Figuratively, not literally."  
  
"I should hope not," Spock replied, "as I prefer to have you on the physical plane of existence."  
  
Bones raised his eyes skyward. "Not getting on each other nerves, then? Without any ship wide emergencies and landing parties to distract you from domestic squabbles?"  
  
"We're fumbling along just fine." Jim gripped Spock's arm briefly. "I don't miss command as much as I thought I would. Not like the first time I was grounded. Though I didn’t have Spock last time." Jim's arm moved down Spock's arm as an overwhelming emotion assaulted him with the simple statement. Regret, perhaps, that he had not been there for Jim that first time. And gratitude, that he was now. Glancing at him, a reassurance in his look, Jim laughed lightly brushing away the gravity of his words. "And I wasn't nearly as old. I'm sure you can understand that," Jim said, tapping his foot against McCoy's calf.  
  
"Speak for yourself," Bones grumbled.    
  
"Not sure your back would agree with you," Jim argued.    
  
"Let's not get started on my back." Bones frowned up at Spock, as if he had said the teasing remark rather than Jim. "And how about you Spock? Not fed up with this handful and all his human eccentricities?"  
  
"I am content," Spock replied.  
  
"Content. He's content," Bones snorted. "That's gotta be the equivalent of ‘over the moon’ in Vulcan."  
  
   
  
Despite his skepticism about the evening and his lagging energy levels, it was not Jim, but Spock who felt wearied by the time they considered it polite to leave the event hall, other uniformed attendees also beginning to drift away. Jim, achieving a social second wind, invited McCoy for a nightcap. Although Spock wished for a quiet night, just the two of them after spending several hours among the company of colleagues and strangers, Spock did not object. As Jim had already given the invitation before consulting Spock, and McCoy had enthusiastically agreed, it would be deemed rude for Spock to rescind the offer.  
  
In the name of hospitality, Spock joined the two humans for a drink, contributing little to the conversation as he felt his shields cracking at the edges, Jim's emotions, brimming with affection and comradery in the presence of his friend and bondmate, were a too pleasant buzz, a lightheadedness similar to that caused by excessive amounts of alcohol. After such a full day, Spock required meditation to better balance the feelings being passed along their link with his own.  
  
Setting down his glass, Spock observed Jim, his eyes refocusing on the flash of red. Jim was removing the coat of his uniform, complaining about the restrictive collar. He tossed it over the edge of the couch, tugging down the hem of his white undershirt, and continued his conversation with McCoy about the doctor's new private practice and unnamed patient with a recurring case of cold sores. The story was apparently amusing as both men laughed raucously, the noise and Jim's heavy jubilance heightening the throbbing pressure building in the back of Spock's mind.    
  
Spock stiffened, a sudden chill overcoming his thoughts, his eyes transfixed on the red coat crumpled and discarded. It would have taken little effort to step into their bedroom, two meters behind the living room. A minute or two at most, to open the closet and hang the shirt to prevent ruining the neat and dedicated handiwork of smoothing and straightening Spock had executed earlier in the day to save Jim the nuisance of performing a monotonous task he found no enjoyment in.  
  
There was a slight shift in the emotion along their bond, Jim's contentment stilling for a moment in question. He turned to Spock, an answering inquiry in his eyes and tone. "Spock? Want another drink?"  
  
Spock blinked. He gripped his hands behind his back. "I will decline. I require meditation."  
  
Jim frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line, the question in his mind shifting to concern. "Okay, sure. You rest up. We'll keep it down out here."  
  
"Unnecessary," Spock answered stiffly. He turned swiftly, stepping into their bedroom, the door sliding shut behind him.  
  
He heard McCoy's gruff voice, muffled beyond the door. "Someone's got a bee in their bonnet."  
  
*  
  
"Why are you shielding?" Jim asked the next morning, shirtless, pajama bottoms sagging on his hips, face strained with confusion from outside the bathroom door where Spock was buttoning up his robes.  
  
"I have been over stimulated of late." Spock glanced away from Jim's discerning eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. "It is nothing a few nights of quiet and meditation cannot relieve."  
  
"Tell me what's wrong, Spock," Jim insisted, his voice steady, commanding tone honed after years in the captain's chair. "It's something I did or you wouldn't be shielding."  
  
Despite the careful lay of his Vulcan facade and the tight control on his thoughts, Jim's concern wore at Spock’s barriers. The nuances in his speech and the slight movements of his body, although unaware of them himself, had become a map Jim excelled at plotting, leading him to the well of his emotions.  
  
"It is nothing. You should dress. You'll miss the car to the airport," Spock replied, stepping past Jim to the bedroom.    
  
The bed was unmade, the sheets crumpled to one side, hanging off the edge and trailing onto the floor. Jim had not made the bed. He never made the bed. Spock would end up doing it while Jim was showering, or changing, or drinking his morning coffee.  
  
"The bed is unmade."  
  
"Huh?" Jim stepped up behind him. "It doesn't matter. Spock, talk to me."  
  
"It does matter." Spock answered dully. "It is uncomfortable to lie on tangled sheets."  
  
"Ok, sure. I'll make the bed before I leave."  
  
"No," Spock shook his head slightly. "I will make the bed. I always do, even though you are last to rise and it would be easy for you to tuck in the sheets after waking."  
  
Jim blinked at him, mouth opening and closing. Perhaps it was petty, to be assaulting Jim with these trivial accusations. Spock had made the bed without complaint, without being asked, day upon day until it became habit, so ingrained in ritual he had not considered how it made him feel until now, words spilling uncontrollably from his mouth.  
  
"You leave the dishes soiled in the evenings when it would be more efficient to clean them before the food has dried and crusted on the plates. You leave your clothes lying on the floor instead of placing them in the washing basket, which would provide convenience when collecting the laundry, and less likely to create a cumbersome mess when vacuuming the carpet. You leave your clothes in the dryer, so I must remove them in order to dry another load, and as it is in my nature to not leave such things undone, I find myself folding these forgotten clothes. Such as last night, when I ironed your dress uniform, so it would not be overly creased for our evening at Starfleet. And then you found it necessary to leave it discarded on the couch when it would have taken little effort to deposit the uniform in our closet to prevent the necessity of additional ironing being required when you next need to wear it."  
  
Jim breathed, in and out, his eyes wide with surprise. Spock kept his shields intact despite his distress, afraid of what he would sense on the other side of the bond. "All this about a shirt," Jim spoke into the heavy silence following Spock's pontification, his voice barely registering above a whisper. "I didn't even know you ironed it. You should have left it. I would have done it myself."  
  
"The shirt required ironing, so I ironed it," Spock answered.  
  
"I honestly didn't realize. Why didn't you tell me all this was bothering you sooner?"    
  
Spock suddenly felt deflated, the surge of anger evaporating against the look in Jim's eyes, the quietness in his voice. He should have kept this pettiness to himself and avoided the conflict. It had become habit, one carried over from their days on the Enterprise, and his first officer's duties, to handle the minute of command, without question or remark, to save Jim unnecessary hassle, so he could focus on the larger responsibilities of running a starship. A habit of duties that had not shifted with their move to Earth—no longer captain and first officer, but two separate halves of a marriage bond.    
  
"I do not know," Spock replied softly. "I suppose I did not want to cause you undue distress."  
  
"Spock," Jim breathed, a world of meaning in the exhale. "You should never, ever have to worry about telling me how you feel." He shook his head, pressing index and thumb against the bridge of his nose. "It kills me that you felt you had to hold back all this resentment. That you had to shield from me because you were afraid of calling me out over the washing up."  
  
Words had left Spock. He watched Jim, the softness in his eyes, the hints of emotional pain seeping from his body language with the twitch of fingers and hunch of shoulders. He must fix this, yet he was not sure how.  
  
There was a honk from outside and an answering buzz from Jim's communicator. "Look, the air car's here." He glanced at Spock and away with a frown. "We'll deal with this when I get back." He stepped toward Spock, hand moving slightly, then thought against whatever physical reassurance he had considered, leaving the room with a simple, "see you next week."  
  
Spock, in his fuming, had forgotten to reach out to Jim with fingers extended in farewell. A custom he had never neglected to perform since their bonding.  
  
*  
  
The room was silent when Spock returned from the embassy that evening. He knew it would be; Jim had left that morning to present a guest lecture at Starfleet's European headquarters and would be away for a week. Yet, the stillness of their home shocked him. His internal disquiet was likely a symptom of the disturbing conversation they had exchanged before Jim's departure, the lack of a proper farewell, his hands knotted behind his back and his mind cloaked in the protection of his shields. Afraid of the response of Jim's thoughts, worried he would find hurt and rejection, their once easy relationship, tended for so many years, ruined by Spock's dissatisfaction with Jim's inability to be unnerved by creased clothing, Spock had kept his shields firmly raised.  
  
It was illogical for Spock to worry. The words had been spoken and they could not be taken back. Upon Jim's return on Monday, they would resolve their differences, as they had countless times during their relationship. He would meditate, clear his mind so to better handle his onslaught of emotional turmoil and form a logical perspective on the matter.  
  
Stepping into the bedroom, unrolling his mat, lighting the incense, Spock noted the crisp sheets tucked under the corners of the bed and the lack of clothing or shoes stranded on the floor. Despite the order of his surroundings, Spock could not replicate the effect in his mind. He remained sitting, shoulders loose, urging his mind into complacency for half an hour. The silence assaulted his ears. Missing sounds of movement beyond the door, bare feet slapping tile, a hummed tune, the opening and shutting of cupboards, the empty spaces that Jim normally filled, stoked the flames of Spock’s unrest. He gave up, and retired to the living room, leaving his meditation equipment scattered on the floor, and sank into Jim's chair, pulling up unfinished work on his PADD to keep his mind distracted.    
  
   
  
Spock prepared a simple dinner of plomeek soup with kreyla. He only ate this simply when Jim was away, as cooking for two required a combining of two tastes, and Jim favoured larger portions and variety in his dishes. He wished to savor the bland fair, especially with the recent turmoil of his mind and the answering weariness in his body, hoping an easily digestible meal would assist in clearing his thoughts and lead to a more successful meditation session during the evening hours.    
  
The food was tasteless, each bite swirling in his stomach uncomfortably. He cleared away the half eaten food, washing each dish by hand and drying it with a cloth before stacking the item in its assigned cupboard. Stepping back with a last swish of a cloth over the stove to clear up any remaining debris, Spock attempted to admire the kitchen's cleanliness, every item in its place, not a speck of food left to crust on the countertop. After his complaints to Jim about disarray, such a sight should have provided a form of satisfaction to his regularly ordered mind. Instead, Spock felt confused and displaced, as if the home he had been living in for the past year was not his own.    
  
His rest during Jim's week away was fretful, the lack of warmth against his left side, the strangeness of absence jolting him awake with a shivering chill, grasping for a hand that was not there.  
  
*  
  
Spock went to the airport to meet Jim. The thought of waiting at home for the scheduled air car to return his bondmate—despite the illogic of fretting over an extra thirty to forty minutes—to his side sent Spock's mind into a fumbling disturbance of anticipation, relief, joy, and worry. Worry that Jim would be distant with Spock after their argument, however unlikely considering Jim's inability to hold grudges.  
  
He considered bringing a gift, a human gesture, to assist in dispelling any ill-will. Flowers and candy were traditional gifts, yet held no significance other than a lazy, uncreative form of apology. Rubber gloves or cleaning supplies might appeal to Jim's sense of humor, but Spock was too sensitive about causing further offense. Eyeing the selection at the corner store, Spock became so filled with conflict over which gift was more appropriate, that he ended up leaving the store empty handed with only twenty minutes to spare before Jim was due to arrive.    
  
   
  
Jim greeted him with a smile. It was slightly subdued from the blazing grin he usually wore when returning home and seeing Spock for the first time, as if his mouth would tear at the seams, their bond alight with joy. Although Spock had lowered his shields, he kept his emotions tightly bound with the vestiges of his discipline. He felt a similar fight in Jim's own thoughts, as if he were projecting one sentiment but feeling another.    
  
"You didn't have to come all the way out here to meet me," Jim said, an apology in his tone that pained Spock to hear.  
  
"I wanted to," Spock answered. He held his fingers out. There was no hesitation as Jim mirrored the gesture, his smile broadening. Spock closed his eyes, marveling in the calm he suddenly felt with the simple touch. "I apologize for my outburst before your departure," Spock blurted out. "My concerns were inconsequential."  
  
"For God's sake, Spock," Jim frowned and grinned at the same time, the sudden change in expression followed by a wave of affection tinged with frustration. "Your concerns are never inconsequential. You were right to call me out on them." He took Spock's arm. "Let's go home. I'm making you dinner."  
  
*  
  
"You're a methodical person, Spock—I should have realized leaving my junk lying around would irritate you." Jim stirred the sauce bubbling on the stove, Spock looming beside him, as close as he dared without getting in the way on Jim's movements around the kitchen. "I've been taking you for granted. We've been together so long now and it's so easy with us," he paused to grip Spock's wrist briefly. "I got stuck in the rut of my complacency." He pressed his hand to Spock's cheek. "I should have noticed everything you were doing for me. I'm sorry."  
  
"No, Jim. You are not at fault." He stroked Jim's knuckles, savoring the touch after their unsettling time apart. "I never spoke of my dissatisfaction. I shielded from you, an act unbecoming in a bondmate."  
  
Jim's eyelashes lowered, laughter in his breath. "Even though we're two old married farts, guess we still have a few things to learn about being in a relationship."  
  
"Although I would not use that particular phrasing, there is, of course, always room for improvement in all aspects of life."  
  
Jim's laughter released itself, a mixture of humor and relief in the sudden expelling. "With age comes wisdom," he said.  
  
"Indeed." Spock removed Jim's hand from his cheek so he could squeeze it gently between two palms.  
  
Breathing in deeply with a smile, Jim grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped at a splatter of tomato juice on the countertop. "I'm going to work on remembering to clean up, if you promise to tell me when something's bothering you. I want you to feel comfortable in your home—not like you have to tiptoe around my ego."  
  
Spock nodded. "That is a reasonable compromise."  
  
Jim answered him with a grin and a press of his hand against Spock's back. He sniffed at the tomato sauce, giving it one last stir. "Hope you're hungry because I've made you a huge 'please forgive your slovenly bondmate' feast."  
  
"Slovenly is an over exaggeration, Jim." Spock raised an eyebrow as Jim shrugged, nonchalant, inspecting the contents in the pots. "It smells appetizing. Do you require assistance? I could set the table."  
  
"Just sit down, Spock." Jim pulled out a chair, pressing down on Spock's shoulder until he gave in and relaxed into the chair. "Let me take care of you for a change. He plated the spaghetti, coating it in a sauce thick with vegetables, and placed two slices of garlic bread on the side, more than Spock was likely to be able to consume in one sitting, and placed the meal on the table in front of Spock. Pushing the knife and fork around until they were neatly parallel with the plate, Jim fluffed a napkin across Spock's lap and stared down at him with hands on hips. "Well, go ahead. It looks edible."  
  
"Will you join me?" Spock asked with a querying brow. Although he was touched by the gesture, he did not feel comfortable consuming a meal as Jim hovered over him.  
  
"Ah, yes right," Jim blushed slightly, brushing his hand against the back of his neck. He assembled another plate of food, the items mashed on top of each other in a pile, a contrast to the neat arrangement of pasta on Spock's plate, and sat across from him. "Bon appetit!" Spock followed Jim's lead, twirling spaghetti noodles around his fork. "And don't you dare try to clean a single dish afterward. Or that mess I made." Jim waved a knife at the stovetop splattered with drops of oil and tomatoes. "I'm dealing with it, no objections."  
  
"But you cooked." Spock frowned. "It has been our routine that the person who does not cook cleans up."  
  
"Yeah, and how many times have you broken that routine. And how many times have I let you?" Jim chewed around a mouthful of noodles. "I'm cleaning up after you've had your fill. I mean it--no objections."  
  
"Very well, Jim," Spock agreed, taking a large bite of his food, his appetite suddenly returned.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, Spock rose two hours earlier than Jim, as was customary. After boiling a kettle of water, he sipped at a cup of tea, perusing the news. Fifteen minutes before Jim's usual waking time, Spock set the coffee machine and toasted two slices of bread, coating them in a thick layer of peanut butter and strawberry jam. He carried the plate of toast and a full mug of coffee into their room, careful not to spill any liquid and stain their rug.    
  
Jim yawned as Spock wrapped his right hand around the mug, and placed the toast in his blanketed lap.  
  
Raising his eyebrows, Jim pressed his nose to the steam emanating from the coffee. "I'll get crumbs in the bed."  
  
"I know," Spock answered, laying a hand against Jim's knee, squeezing it through the blanket. "I am willing to compromise on this untidy activity since eating in bed provides you a strange modicum of pleasure."  
  
Jim bit into a piece of toast with a grin. "That's a slippery slope, Spock. Once I finish getting crumbs everywhere, next thing you know, I'm tossing my PJs on the floor." He gazed at Spock, a slow upward movement of his eyes. "And then yours."  
  
Reaching out, Spock brushed a speck of peanut butter lingering on Jim's bottom lip. Jim's tongue darted out to swipe at the pad of Spock's finger. "You can pick them up after we're finished. I'll change the sheets later," Spock replied, voice low, shivering at the cool contact of Jim's tongue.  
  
"Compromise," Jim hummed, stuffing the last piece of toast in his mouth and chewing with vigor around a burgeoning grin. Crispy specks of toast fell from his fingers onto the unblemished white of their sheets.  
  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on [tumblr](http://noodleinabarrel.tumblr.com/) for spirk spam and fangirling.


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